


Produced by Patterns So Familiar

by Rinari7



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, Gen, Not A Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:07:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7188233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinari7/pseuds/Rinari7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was bound to come, someday. The mess she couldn't save him from, the day he left, not of his own will, the day they broke.</p><p>How it might have happened, afterwards, if nothing had changed, because "I love her" can affect surprisingly little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Produced by Patterns So Familiar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenni3penny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenni3penny/gifts).



> Dedicated thusly because your enthusiasm for my little drabbles excited me to pick up a few more unfinished pieces and ideas that had been bouncing around.

Jonathan was everything she ever really wanted, if she was honest with herself. He was funny, intelligent, open, _honest_ , reliable. He didn’t try to be charming, but somehow managed to do it anyways, and the way his stubble scraped her skin when he kissed her tenderly made her breath hitch and he stomach flip.

But he wasn’t _the one_ , this idiot who wouldn’t leave her head, who she now knew would always haunt her. _Cal would have a sarcastic comeback for that--thank God he’s not here to piss them off. Cal always left all the financials to me, the ass. Cal kissed me with a smile on his face._

She married Jonathan.

 

The Lightman Group ran much more smoothly nowadays, and she wasn’t sure if she relished it or not. She was content. On some days, even happy. But you couldn’t be deliriously happy all the time, could you? Your neural receptors wouldn’t allow it, and you’d become desensitized to the endorphins. That was why addicts needed more and more heroin for the same high, she recited to herself.

 

There was a pile of letters, in a basket just behind the basement door. Every week she added one more, dropped the still-sealed envelope in without a second glance. At the very bottom, there were a few that had been opened, and taped shut again, because he had talked (written) as if nothing had happened, as if he had no need to apologize, as if he was going to see her again tomorrow and not in the several years his sentence called for.

She never asked why her husband still left them out on the counter for her, after he had sorted the mail, even though she had told him, multiple times, that he could throw them out.

 

Emily still called, sometimes, from college in California. Her excuse was usually psychology homework, and Gillian was always happy to help, and she didn’t comment when the first few inanely simple material-related questions that she _knew_ Emily could answer in her sleep devolved into a more casual, personal conversation.

Gill was always patient when Emily turned to the same topics: what she was doing nowadays, and how the Lightman Group (how she) was doing without him, and whether she was _sure_ she was happy.

She wondered if Emily heard something in her voice that wouldn’t let her drop it, but Gillian wouldn’t let herself ever answer differently than the first time. “I’m sure, Emily. I’m very happy with Jonathan.”

Emily was quiet for several moments. “He really wishes you’d write him back. Or call, or something. I mean, you’ll have to work together again when he gets out.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. That’s between me and your father.”

There was always a quiet sigh. “Why do people always say that?”

“Because it’s true.”

Emily sighed again. “It still affects other people. I miss him. And I miss you.”

She tried to keep her tone gentle. “You’d have to move back to the East Coast again to see more of us. No matter what situation either of us were in.”

“It’s still not the same.”

“I know.”

Their conversations ended quietly afterwards, because there was really nothing more left to say.  
  
Usually, and then one time, after a reflexive “Love you,” Emily let out the beginning of a sad laugh.

“What?”  
  
Emily paused, and then her voice held the trepidation of someone weighing every word. “You know, for a couple of years, after your divorce… I hoped I would get to call you ‘Mom’ someday.”

Gillian wasn’t entirely shocked--though touched--but how was she supposed to respond to that? _“He acted like an irresponsible ass for so long I’d lose all my self-respect if I had anything to do with him now.” "I_ _wish I could count you as my daughter in any sense, too.”_  Or some empty, noncommital phrase, delivered with that gentle tone and the veneer of close, friendly distance she had perfected as a therapist?  
So she said nothing, sudden tears pricking her eyelids.

“He loves you, you know. He told me. A few years ago.” There was no accusation in her not-daughter’s voice.

Gillian straightened, braced herself against the arm of the couch, suddenly glad Jonathan wasn’t home right now as she inhaled shakily, trying to even her tone. “But he never told _me_.”

“Does it surprise you? To hear that.”

 _Of course not_. “I think--this falls under ‘just between him and me’.” She knew she would hear a frustrated little noise on the other end of the line. “I’m still here for you, Emily, no matter what you call me.”

“Thanks, Gillian.” A sigh, and then the girl’s tone was a more genuine. “I mean, it. Thank you.”

“It’s nothing to thank me for.” She meant it, too.

“Love you,” and the line went dead, and Gillian went to remove the makeup that was beginning to run.

 

Dr. Foster’s last day with The Lightman Group (which, though mostly recovered, still suffered from the negative publicity its namesake had called down upon it) was the day before Dr. Lightman was scheduled to be let out of prison, and Ria and Loker’s faces held nothing but understanding as she officially handed her control of the group over to her younger, still freshly-minted business partners.

 

She did buy his book, which was published shortly afterwards--he had had a lot of time in prison to research and write, she supposed.  
The dedication caught her eye, once: _For Gillian, who finally let me have what was coming to me. Sorry, love._  
And she closed her eyes, and shook her head. “It wasn’t that I didn’t want to save you, you idiot, but even I couldn’t that time.” Then she carefully pulled out that page, and put it in that basket with the letters--which had stopped, a month after he had been freed.

 

Emily met her for lunch, sometimes, at her new practice in Sacramento or at a cafe down the street, with actual, in-depth questions for her thesis, but they avoided one topic scrupulously.  
At her graduation, she felt his presence, without needing to look, but she made sure to remain at least half a room away at all times.  
  
“You can be kind of a coward,” Emily whispered, when Gillian congratulated her, while Cal was off getting food for the both of them.

It stung, but there was really nothing more to talk about. She was married. She wasn’t his business partner. His shenanigans were no longer her business--though she hadn’t heard anything about him in the news recently, and hoped Ria and Loker had learned from her mistakes, were far less talented at enabling than she had been.

So she was going to leave, and then he called her name, and she stopped, and turned.

He cleared his throat, a thousand unreadable things written on his face. “I just wanted to thank you. For helping Emily so much.”  
  
Her smile was genuine, she thought. “I love her, too, Cal.”  
  
He nodded. Zoe appeared and swept her daughter into a hug, and as Gillian left, she realized just how much she felt like an ex, when, to the naked, untrained eye, they had hardly been anything at all.


End file.
